


The Collector

by ShinySherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attraction, Bisexual John Watson, Completely ignoring the events of The Final Problem, Creepy, Emotional Manipulation, Eurus POV, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Jane Eyre references, Kissing, M/M, Meddling, Mutual Pining, Picks up at end of The Lying Detective but before Eurus reveals herself, Protective Siblings, Reconciliation, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Sherlock Series 4 Spoilers, Siblings, Synesthesia, This fic assumes John and Mary had some marital strife, redbeard is a dog, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:43:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9849797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinySherlock/pseuds/ShinySherlock
Summary: Coaxing Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to get out of their own way is just the sort of task she savors. With vials, bottles, and boxes, she stoppers up their grief, siphons their yearning, captures their devotion to add to her collection. (Canon-compliant through the majority of TLD; ignores TFP completely).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [destinationtoast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinationtoast/gifts).



> Destinationtoast "won" me in the Fandom Trumps Hate auction (2017) and was very kind to give me an entire menu of prompts to choose from. I picked two: "Eurus POV" and "John and Sherlock being confused about building UST -- and/or pining -- and then coming to their senses and getting together. Especially with a nudge/meddling from another character." I also wanted to explore a different take on Eurus, so although everything is the same until the very end of The Lying Detective, I completely ignore all events from The Final Problem. [insert gif of Adam Savage saying "I reject your reality and substitute my own."] And many thanks to Mars for betawork on an early draft!

She lets him into the office, and he takes the seat across from her, shoulders relaxed, legs crossed, eyes bright. Actually getting some sleep, then.

“Thanks for seeing me on short notice, Dr. Roth,” he says, and she smiles.

“Please; Liesel. After our last session, I think we can be on a first-name basis.”

He gives a soft chuckle. “Yes, you’re probably right. Sorry about your bins.”

She waves a hand. There’s a pause, but he is not anxious. “You seem so much better, John.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “I . . . I think I am. Not _all_ day, not _every_ day, but . . . you know.”

“And Rosie?”

He swells up predictably. “Oh, beautiful, perfect; unprecedented in the history of children.” He smiles genuinely, nearly bursting with parental love. “That’s not my bias--that’s scientific fact.”

She smiles in return. “Good.” She knows the next question will throw him, and she delays it just a bit, savoring the anticipation of the coming contrast.

“What changed for you?” she asks, and emotions travel over his features like sunlight through a stained-glass window. She can pick out each color--red for anger, blue for sadness, cloud-grey and violet-pink floating over his face.

“I . . .” The colors war and he does not answer.

“I know this is hard. You may not know. But we can try to find out together,” she says gently.

“No, it’s not that--it’s not that it’s mysterious. I think I just. I haven’t said it out loud.” His body goes still, his open, cheerful demeanor gone. She sees turmoil and fear in his dark blue eyes, and can’t resist the pull. She adjusts her tone--not pushy, not hesitant, just the right amount of inviting.

“Would you like to say it out loud?”

She lets the question sit there in the space between them. She makes her own face open and accepting, lips neutral, brown eyes welcoming. This is what she wants from him, and he will give it to her unknowingly, beautifully.

He lifts his chin, swallows, and she knows--he’s going to say it, all of it, because he trusts her, because he feels safe with her.

“I think . . . I _know_ it’s that I, finally, looked some truths in the eye.”

She stays very still.

“Mary and I . . .”

He begins with the more obvious truth, of course.

“We weren’t happy.” He shakes his head. “I think we both wanted to be happy. Very much. We tried very hard. Lied to ourselves. To each other.”

He pauses, adrift in memories, and she tugs him back gently, “What lies?”

“So many,” he says with a sad smile. “Too many. There was a woman. Elspeth. I could say it was just texting, and it was--we never . . . we never went beyond that. But it counted. As cheating.”

“Did you tell Mary?”

“No, I--I tried. Not hard enough. I was about to tell her. The day she . . . the day she died. She was complaining--” He edits himself. “She was saying how perfect I was, and I was about explain to her exactly how not perfect I was. Am. And then . . . and then it was too late.”

He looks away a moment. She can see him deciding how much to say, whether to say it all, and when he looks back at her, she keeps her face free of judgment, free of expectation.

“That wasn’t the only thing I lied about,” he continues, one corner of his mouth pulling up in a sad smile. “When I told her I could ignore her past. That was a lie. When I said I could forgive her for lying to me, I was trying to be a better man than I actually am. I’m not sure I ever fully forgave her, and it was unfair to her to pretend that I could, just so I could feel better about myself.”

“And did you feel better about yourself? Trying to be a good man, a perfect man?”

Glancing up to the ceiling, John sniffs and shakes his head. “I’m rubbish at it. She kept saying I was better than she deserved, that I was . . .” He sniffs again, and his eyes shine with sudden tears. “When she was . . . dying, she said I made her happy, that I was her whole world.”

He takes a moment to compose himself and she keeps her expression steady; John Watson doesn’t need pats on the back or a box of tissues--he needs to tell someone these things, and it’s going to be her he tells.

“But it wasn’t true. She wasn’t happy. She thought she had to prove herself to me, you know, in the day to day things, like she had to win me back.” He rolls his eyes as though this were a ridiculous notion. “But then, when it came time to choose, you know, whether we would take things on together, for real, or not--she always chose to do it on her own. And that was just her. That wasn’t going to change. I wasn’t going to change. We were both . . . shamming. Trying to play at being normal. It was never going to work.”

She tilts her chin just the slightest bit, her silver hair shadowing her face just a little more, and it’s enough to encourage him to make the next leap.

“And it took me a while to realize--a long while, too long--that it was the same with Sherlock and I.”

Her face stays the same, but inside she is smiling. _There. Was that so hard?_ In her mind, she catches him, holds him to her, and he tells her everything.

“I had said that I forgave him for when he’d . . . but I was still angry.” He looks down at the knuckles of his right hand. “So angry.”

“Is that not . . . understandable?”

He lets out a laugh, remembering their earlier conversation,  as she had intended. “I don’t know how you do it.”

She lets a little smile cross her face. “Do what?”

“Have this much patience with us idiots. With how long it takes us to see things you must see in an instant.”

“Well. Your expectations are a bit skewed, John. You’ve been with Sherlock Holmes for years now, a man whose impatience with idiots is rather legendary.”

He nods and looks down, a secret sort of smile crossing his face.

“But you’re not an idiot, John. None of my clients are. You are--” She waits until he looks up, a mixture of eagerness and apprehension in his eyes. “--A human being. Trying to navigate a complicated existence. It is only understandable to me because I am outside, looking in.”

Eyes open and honest, John asks. “And what do you see?”

He is so ready; just a little nudge. In her mind she cups his face with her hands, kisses his forehead.

“I see a man almost ready to accept his whole self, his genuine self, flaws and all.”

“Almost?”

She gives him a little laugh. “You’ve been through a lot, John. You’ve grown so much, learned to see so much. There’s only a little way left to go, really.”

She plucks his strings, pulls forth a note.

“Oh?” he asks.

“You’ll know. When you are ready to forgive and accept--not just others, but yourself--you’ll know. It won’t be long now at all.”

“You sound so sure,” John says, eyes narrowing in doubt. “How can you know?”

She smiles. “I can taste it.”


	2. Chapter 2

It takes time.

Sherlock’s friends are quite attentive once rallied, and it’s weeks before they decide he can be left to his own devices for significant portions of the day.  But eventually they do.

She watches him try to fill the time. With cases. With research. With compositions and long naps and endless cups of tea. He’s only been three nights on his own and he’s jittery.

He paws through items at the flat, searching for something. She watches as he digs through the mess behind the telly. All at once he freezes, holding something in his hands.

It’s the note, the one ‘Faith’ brought that night, the night of doped deductions and suicide chips.

Ah. Finally getting around to wondering about her, then. She had left him so many clues, but there had been so many _distractions_ since then, what with the almost dying and all.

But Sherlock is bored and sober now; he’s remembered, and he’ll see the clue.

Go on, then, brother.

He rummages through a drawer, finds the blacklight torch, and there now. He sees it. His eyes are wide, and he looks around the flat, as if a ghost were waiting in the wings to jump at him.

It’s time.

He answers on the first ring.

“Well. Did you?” she asks.

His eyes narrow. “Did I what?” His tone is cautious, but she can feel the curiosity there, electric blue sparking at the edges of his tone.

“Miss me,” she says, putting a smile in her voice.

There’s a long pause, and she waits. She is certain of his answer.

“Yes.”

“I’ve missed you, too, my sweet. Fancy some chips? I thought I might come round, if you’re free.”

She can hear the gears turning as Sherlock considers his options--can he trust her friendly tone? Is she connected to Moriarty? What is her purpose in contacting him again? Where are the cameras that she clearly has set up in the flat?--and she knows he’s hooked.

“I’d be delighted.”

Give him a puzzle and watch him dance.

* * *

She wears the same wig and the big glasses, but ditches the cane, the red dress from before. Jeans and a jumper this time, and a proper coat.

The older woman answers the door.

“Hi. Mrs. Hudson?” she asks.

“Yes, dear?” The woman is sharp, but does not remember her from before, as she was very careful not to be seen.

“I’m here for Sherlock.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Hudson ushers her in. “I’m just off to meet the girls--you know the way up?”

“Oh, yes,” she answers.

She walks up the stairs and hears Sherlock playing--Sonata No. 1 in G minor. Interesting. Johann Sebastian wouldn’t be appalled, exactly, but Sherlock’s got a ways to go yet. She shakes her head; she’s heard him play it so many times over the years--Bach challenges him, but it also eludes him. The notes are perfect but he can’t get the emotion right. Not yet, brother. Soon, though. He’s gotten much better lately.

“Amazing.”

He stops playing, but he doesn’t turn.

“Lie.”

“I meant the bison skull.”

Now he turns, and he smiles. “I always thought you might turn up again.”

“Lie.”

“I . . . _hoped_ you might.” And there it is, the seedling of emotional honestly he’s been cultivating, coaxing into life.

She nods.

He reaches over to set the violin and bow into their case. “You’re clearly not Faith Smith, a fact I would have deduced had I not been completely high the last time we met.” He turns to face her. “Who are you tonight?”

“How about ‘Hope’?”

He doesn’t call her on the lie; instead he’s amused. “I’m sober now; aren’t you afraid I’ll deduce you for real?”

“Do I look afraid, Sherlock?”

He looks her over, sees so much in an instant--the clean and tidy coat in emerald green, the casual but well-kept clothes, the hair piled in an artful mess, sturdy shoes that are good for walking, no jewelry, no purse, a phone and wallet in the pockets of her jeans, her expression friendly but mischievous. He sees everything she has given him--and nothing else.

She observes him as well, the skin that has regained its color, the black trousers and dark blue shirt as clean and pressed and tailored as a uniform, the eyes clear and alert but shimmering with agitation. No. Not ready for Bach quite yet, brother.

Having deduced what she knew he would, Sherlock gives her a half-smile and walks over to the coat tree. He pulls on blazer, coat, scarf and stands tall near the doorway.

“Shall we?”

* * *

He doesn’t ask her any direct questions, an unspoken understanding between them that to do so would spoil something. It’s no fun if he doesn’t deduce it on his own.

She gives him tiny glimpses, the subtlest of clues, but they are all red herrings, deliberate distractions to lead him in all directions but the correct one. He knows it. He plays anyway.

She visits him every few days--always at night, always when he’s alone. They play deductions and banter and she slips her arm around his as they walk and walk along the streets of London, the man in black and the woman in green.

* * *

Mary died exactly one year ago tonight, and John Watson is, quite deliberately, getting pissed.

Sherlock takes a token sip from the glass of whiskey John has poured for him, but John is already far enough along he won’t notice that Sherlock’s not really drinking.

Eurus frowns at the screen. (Sherlock thinks he has found and disabled all the cameras she has placed in his flat, but he is wrong.)

She thinks of all the hard work she and John have done in therapy and yet he needs alcohol to get the courage to speak certain truths.

They are both on the sofa, John’s posture sloppy and expansive. Sherlock stays at his end, perched, still learning how to be around a John Watson who is giving voice to his emotions.

“It’s not right, it’s not right,” John says over and over, making no sense at all.

“What’s not right?” Sherlock asks, using his gentle voice.

John looks over to him, his face puffy, red. “To feel this.”

For a moment, Sherlock looks terrified, but his voice is steady as he asks. “To feel what?”

John’s eyes make a arc around the room, and he drops his head. “I’m not sure I loved her, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinks at him like a cursor on a screen.

“I feel . . . _relieved_.”

The confession presses out of John as thorough extruded without his consent. His guilt is a dark, wet fog surrounding him, but now that he’s started, he can’t seem to stop. “I don’t regret it--how can I regret what led to Rosie?” He shakes his head, the thought abhorrent. “But Mary and me, it wasn’t easy, it wasn’t storybook. It was _work._ Trying _so_ hard. _Every_ day. Ever since she shot you.”

John looks over to Sherlock now, his direct gaze a form of emotional bravery that he is capable of at times, and that always seems to awe Sherlock.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock says quickly.

“It’s _not_. We have to stop pretending things are okay when they’re _not_.” Tears are spilling over John’s cheeks but the line of his jaw, the fierceness of his eyes are all steely determination.

“It’s not okay that she shot you.”

With each statement of truth he moves closer. She doubts he’s conscious of it; his body seems compelled forward, moving ever closer to Sherlock as the magnitude of truth increases.

“It’s not okay that she was killed. It’s not okay that Rosie will grow up without a mother.”

He is so close now.

“It’s not okay that she died.”

He is inches from Sherlock, who has stayed frozen at his end of the sofa.

“It’s not okay that _you_ ‘died.’” It comes out in a whisper, and Sherlock’s face crumples, truth burning through the shock.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers back, his voice thick as tears spring to his eyes.

John’s voice cracks. “It’s not okay that you didn’t take me with you.”

It’s too much; John collapses, folds himself down.

Sherlock catches him.

He pulls John in, they wind their arms around each other, and Sherlock whispers against John’s gold-grey hair.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .”

They lay there on the sofa, fiercely entangled, Sherlock running his hands endlessly over John’s back, John holding on to Sherlock as though his arms are enough to keep Sherlock close and safe forever.

“Promise,” John says against the skin of Sherlock’s neck. “Never leave me behind again, Sherlock; promise.”

“Never,” Sherlock says, his lips against John’s ear. “I promise.”

John’s arms tighten their grip, and Sherlock lets his fingers cup the back of John’s head.

Their reconciliation is a blend of truth and forgiveness, hurt and love. It smells of whiskey and cloves, of blood and roses.

She holds it up to the light. Thick waves of red molasses stick to the sides of the jar as she swirls it gently, and it warms her hands as she lifts it to place it on the shelf.


	3. Chapter 3

John doesn’t work at the clinic anymore where he used to work with Mary. It’s the not the memories that bothered him; he genuinely believes Mary saved his life, pulled him up when he would drown in grief.

No, it’s the people. People who before would hardly spare ten seconds of small talk with him a day now ask insanely personal, impossible to answer questions.

“How are you?”

A right fucking mess, ta. You?

That would be the truthful answer, he thinks, but no one wants to hear that. Except Dr. Roth. _Liesel_ , he corrects himself. She does not flinch in the face of his truths.

He has started over (again) at a new practice, halfway between his place and Baker Street, and very near Mike and Nora Stamford. Their two sons were grown and living in the city, one of them with a toddler of his own that Nora looked after. Nora was more than thrilled to take on another little one, not only to augment her income as an author but to give her granddaughter a playmate during the day.

It had worked out surprisingly well, so well John joked that Mycroft had clearly masterminded the Stamfords’ life choices; but he doesn’t actually believe that.

No. John reckons the universe owes him a few happy coincidences, considering.

Perhaps that’s why, when he sees a familiar face in an unfamiliar place, he doesn’t question it.

* * *

His approach is confident, calm. “Hello, again.”

She looks up, startled. “John!” she says, and it’s nearly a gasp. She pops out of her seat on the bus, yanks out the earbuds and stuffs them in her bag.

“I didn’t--” She tucks her ginger hair behind her ear. “I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s okay, Elspeth,” he says, his voice steady, his eyes kind. “I know you didn’t.”

She shifts her weight as they stand there, and she sways on her four-inch espadrilles with the movement of the bus. She looks at him from behind her fringe, blue eyes bright, hesitant smile tugging at her lips. “It’s . . . good to see you.”

He smiles back.

They sit together, talking for the rest of the bus ride to Baker Street, and he is so open. She listens with wide, young eyes and he tells her about Mary, about Rosie, about Sherlock. He lets her grasp his hand when he talks about Mary’s death, doesn’t pull away when she loosens her grip.

They near his stop. “Do you . . . ?”

She gives him an encouraging smile, hopeful eyes.

“Do you want to pop in? Meet Rosie?”

“Oh!” She strikes the balance between eager and respectful. “I’d love to but . . .” She puts a hand on his arm. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not.” He places his hand over hers, squeezes. “I promise.”

She smiles. “I’d like that, then.”

* * *

When John introduces her to Mrs. Hudson, there’s no recognition there, just a clear opinion that she is too young for John.

“Elspeth’s a friend,” John says, putting his hand along the small of her back as he changes the subject. “How’s Rosie?”

Mrs. Hudson’s face brightens. “Oh, cute as button, as always. Nora just dropped her off, said to say sorry for the change in plans today. She’s asleep in her room.”

John takes Elspeth’s hand and leads her to the smaller bedroom. The child sleeps. Elspeth loves children, of course, so she holds John’s hand and watches the baby sleep as though it were interesting and endearing. Eurus, on the other hand, feels no maternal twang, no particular fascination. The father is much more interesting; he turns his head, watches Elspeth watch the baby, and she can sense a heady mixture of emotions from him.

Melancholy is a distant note, audible but in the background. There are high notes of hope, a small trill of happiness, and the something in the bass line changes as he watches her.

His eyes travel over her, as she intended, his gaze lingering over the swell of her breasts. The push-up bra and low neckline of her blouse earn their keep, as does the bright red lipstick that draws his eyes up again to her lips.

It would be easy. Just to turn a little, give a hesitant but interested look from behind her heavy, black lashes, nibble her lip just so.

She could have him, if she wanted, could collect the ember-black, flame-red heat of him, ropes of lava pouring into a titanium jar.

But Rosie is shuffling now, about to wake, and the moment passes. John drops Elspeth’s hand and goes to his daughter, extricating her from the car seat with quiet greetings and coos.

“That wasn’t much of a nap then, was it?” he asks Rosie, standing and putting her over one shoulder. He looks over the baby’s head and catches Elspeth’s eyes.

“Want to hold her?”

She doesn’t, really, but she maintains her ruse, gives a hopeful smile. “May I?”

“Of course.” He holds her out and waits as Elspeth winds her arms around Rosie, taking her gently.

“She might be a bit fussy.”

She is not fussy.

Elspeth looks down into Rosie’s face, keeping her smile in place. John beams at their side, his parental love wrapped around Rosie as bright and warm as a blanket.

Though she has collected for many years now, this is the first time she has held a baby. She’s always wondered what all the fuss was about.

Rosie is a warm and heavy weight in her arms, comforting in the way she snuggles in against Elspeth, a little heat-seeking missile. She looks up at Elspeth with curious eyes that dart from lips to hair to pupils, taking everything in. Elspeth watches a kaleidoscope of feelings flutter over the tiny features, and, though she doubts this is what people mean about babies, she now sees the attraction. In her arms is a creature of pure, unfiltered, unadulterated emotion.

“She’s perfect.”

* * *

She keeps it going as long as she dares, mindful always of her eldest brother’s watchful eye. They have an agreement, after all, and she is very, very close to crossing the line.

But they are so exquisite. John fighting through his deep-seated repression and grief, Sherlock opening his vulnerable heart . . .

And the baby.

She wasn’t expecting that. She has no maternal urge, has never desired in the least to have a child of her own, but there is something fascinatingly genuine about the baby, the absolute authenticity of her.

So she keeps on, taking her fill, drinking them in, collecting her trophies. She’s had to devote an entire room to them, must soon add shelves to avoid crowding the vessels.

The way Sherlock feels about John is a jar of bright amber light, thick and shining like honey.

The way John feels about Sherlock is a scarred and beating heart, tucked in a beaten wooden chest, thump-thumping against the lid, threatening to break the lock.

The way both of them feel about Rosie is pink liquid flame in a bottle, a potion made of dragon fire and rose petals and tears of every kind.

No. She is not done collecting.

Not by half.


	4. Chapter 4

John comes to therapy every week, like clockwork, like taking a pill on time. It doesn’t mean that he’s getting something out of it, it doesn’t mean that he’s come to see his hour with Liesel as a chance to speak truths he can’t voice anywhere else.

Except, of course, it does mean that.

He clears his throat. “I’ve seen Elspeth a couple of times.”

“Oh?” Leisel is always so reassuringly neutral.

“We’re not dating, exactly, I mean, we haven’t even kissed.” 

“Do you want to? Kiss her?”

This is the bit of truth he’s realized this week. “I . . . don’t. Not  _ really _ .”

“Are you surprised by that?”

He is and he isn’t. There’s something he wants to tell her. Needs to hell her. Then it might make sense. She could help him make sense of it.

He draws in a breath through his nose, exhales quickly. Now or never. “There’s something . . . something I had to lock away, a long time ago. Like Rochester’s mad wife, you know, in _ Jane Eyre _ ?”

Liesel nods.

“But . . . it’s always wanted out. It kept quiet enough before, I accepted it, but now.” He looks around the room, avoids her eyes. “Now, it’s banging at the door.”

When he does look at her she has one eyebrow slightly raised.

“It’s not what you think.”

“What do I think?” she asks, neutral, neutral.

“You think I’m struggling with . . . coming out.”

“Are you?”

“No. I’ve always been attracted, gotten attached to people, regardless of gender; it’s not that.”

“What is it, then?”

He knows exactly what it is. He recalls the night at Angelo’s, he was so sure, but then . . .

“A long time ago, Sherlock told me he wasn’t interested. Not like that, anyway. Not . . . physically. For a long time I thought maybe he was asexual, you know, just didn’t feel attraction that way, even though he’s a walking bag of emotions, in general.”

She lets him continue, gives him room to think, to feel. It’s one of the things he likes best about her. 

“I know that he . . . loves me. And I’d walk through fire for him. Have done. But I . . . want.”

“And what has rekindled your desire? What happened?”

Jesus. How to name it? Intense cuddling on the sofa? Borderline heavy petting with a side of swirling emotion? “I may have gotten . . . emotional, with him. The other night. And he . . .”

John remembers. Sherlock willingly pulling him into his arms. Sherlock’s hands swooping over his back, clasping the nape of his neck. Long, tapered fingers sliding into his hair.

“If it had been anyone else, we would’ve shagged each other senseless.”

“What  _ did  _ you do?”

“I think he fell asleep, or maybe pretended to, and I . . . untangled myself and went upstairs and had a sad, drunken wank.” He shakes his head at his own pathetic self, turns his gaze away for a moment.

“Doesn’t sound very satisfying.”

He lets out a huff. “It wasn’t.”

She lets the silence exist, gives him a moment, and he uses it to wonder how much longer he can do this, pretend not to feel what he does. When she speaks, there is hope in her voice, and he clings to it.

“When you picture it, what is it like?”

He doesn’t have to ask what ‘it’ is; he’s spent so much time envisioning it. 

“We’re in the hall, high on adrenaline. I tell him he’s brilliant and he actually hears me.” He smiles wryly at that, and then the images pile up in his head: Sherlock’s silver-blue attention focused entirely on John, noting pupils, pulse, intent. “I look at him and he just . . . knows. And he _wants_. As much as I do.” Because that’s the key that turns the lock, that’s what he needs for this to work for real. He swallows. “When we finally kiss, it’s like . . .  like a fucking house on fire, you know. Confetti cannons. Choir of angels.” He waves a hand towards her. Just like that, it feels impossible again.

A wistful look crosses her face, and there’s a tone to her voice he’s not quite able to identify. “Sounds wonderful.”

He cocks his head. “I don’t know if I’m ready to let my ‘madwoman’ out of the attic.”

She smiles, almost to herself. “A house on fire might be exactly what you need.”

* * *

In the end, it’s the baby that’s her undoing.

Mycroft will stop her soon, he’s seen enough to be worried, but it’s the baby who sees everything.

* * *

 

“Hello,” Sherlock says, opening the door to Hope.

He’s in his usual black suit, but attached to his chest is Rosie, asleep in the front pack. She’s getting too big for it--her arms and legs dangle loosely and Sherlock keeps one hand planted on her bottom for support.

“Slight change of plans.”

Damn. The one night she doesn’t scope out Baker Street before she comes up to see him is the night he has unexpected babysitting duty. But Sherlock looks so hopeful, the baby bag sat just inside the doorway, already packed.

She smiles at him a little. “Sherlock Holmes with a baby.”

He cocks his head. “The infinite strangeness of life.”

He jests, but it suits him, the new him, the kinder him. She tells him so.

“Yes, well, come on. We’ve got forty-two minutes until she wakes up.”

They walk directly to the fish and chips stand this time, and Sherlock orders a ridiculous amount of food.

“Aw, that’s nice,” the owner coos, throwing a glance at Hope before turning back to Sherlock. “Givin’ mum a break?”

Sherlock’s eyes widen at the owner’s assumption and he seems genuinely flustered.

“Oh, I’m the proud auntie,” Hope says easily, giving one of Rosie’s potato-shaped feet a squeeze. “I’m the one supposed to give her daddies a break.”

The owner blinks and then smiles. “Well, you’re lovely, the lot of you.” She puts an extra scoop of chips into the bag and Sherlock pays without saying a word.

They sit on their bench by the river, Hope eating chip after chip as Sherlock stares at her. Their forty-two minutes are almost up.

“What?” she finally asks. 

“John and I aren’t--”

“I know. Close enough, though.”

He’s quiet a moment, then knits his brows. “What do you mean?”

Dear God, she hopes she is around to see these two finally open their eyes, but at this rate . . . 

Eight minutes left, and she decides to stir the pot.

“Sherlock Holmes. You love John Watson. And he loves you.”

Fear, sharp as lime. “It’s not like that--”

“But you wish that it were. You’ve been wishing for it a long time.”

She gives him fifteen seconds to deny it, but he remains silent, looking out over the dark water beyond the railing.

“He’s not . . . interested.”

It’s the most he can manage.

“He might be,” she says. “If you show him you are.”

He doesn’t pretend not to know what she means. “Hope is the worst of all evils,” he says instead.

“Am not,” she kids, biting down on another chip.

“It prolongs the torment of man,” he finishes, ignoring her humor. He’s so sure this suffering is his to bear.

“Oh, Sherlock.” She looks over to him, his eyes a sea of emotion, swirls and eddies of resignation and regret. There by the river he is fear and longing, wrapped in armor, the sour, metallic taste of his pain bright along her tongue. She savors it, swallows it down, and then it’s time. She fixes her gaze on his. “You’ve one more dragon to slay, and then he’ll be yours. Body and soul.”

She sees the question on his lips, but before he can voice it Rosie is waking, and not well--she stretches, giving Sherlock a little punch in the chin. Surprised to be in the pack, to be awake, to be outside, she scrunches up her little face and winds up for what will no doubt be quite a wail.

Hope can’t help herself--she leans in, rubs Rosie’s back. “Hush, petal. You’re all right,” she says, and Rosie looks over at Hope, her eyes initially full of confusion, but then-- 

A deep, absolute recognition. 

The baby smiles at her. 

Shit.

Sherlock looks over to Hope, eyes narrowed. Though he hasn’t figured anything out precisely, his suspicion is roused. “She doesn’t usually take to strangers,” he says.

Hope gives him her most casual smile. “I’m not a stranger. I’m her auntie, remember?”

He is not persuaded. She gives Rosie a tickle under the chin and then stands up, leaving the bag of chips on the bench.

He says nothing as she walks away, but she can feel him watching, the bony fingers of his curiosity creeping over her spine. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Against all odds, writing occurred this week! Thanks for your patience, dear readers! *mwah* Please enjoy the johnlocky goodness contained herein.

John ponders Liesel's words for nearly a week. They take up room in his mind, make themselves comfortable. Every moment John spends with Sherlock--and there are many, as the current case keeps them busy four days straight--he gathers and interprets clues and hints he would have shrugged off before.

Maybe. _Maybe_.

* * *

One late night in 221b,  Mrs. Hudson watches Rosie, has put her to sleep in the cot in the sitting room, and John doesn’t have the heart to wake her and take her home. He says goodnight to Mrs. Hudson and then stands in the middle of the room.

He glances at the sofa, at the stairs leading up to his old bedroom.

Sherlock offers, “Sleep in my room. It’s closer.”

John’s mind immediately provides an image of them both sleeping in Sherlock’s bed. Does Sherlock mean--

“I never sleep when we’re on a case anyway.”

Oh. Right.

As he considers, John watches Sherlock peek at Rosie in her cot by the window and then flop into his armchair nearby and toe off his shoes.

“You’ve got at least five hours until she wakes up,” he pronounces--and so far Sherlock has never been wrong about Rosie.

Five straight hours of sleep sounds divine right about now and John loses any inclination to argue.

“Okay.”

If Sherlock is surprised that John agrees so easily, he doesn’t show it, instead pulling out his phone and tapping away at the screen. John walks over to his daughter’s cot, leaning over to give her the gentlest of kisses, loath to wake her.

“Goodnight, love,” he says softly.

He turns, intending to pass Sherlock and go on to bed, but on sheer impulse, he stops next to Sherlock’s chair. He slides a palm along Sherlock’s cheek, the movement of his palm quick and sure along Sherlock’s skin. He bends and drops a kiss into the chaotic inky curls atop Sherlock’s head, the scent of lavender and honey filling his nose.

“Goodnight, you berk,” John says, releasing him.

“Mmm,” Sherlock hums distractedly, his eyes never leaving his phone.

But John knows. He’d sensed the quick intake of breath, the exhale that came only after John removed his hand from Sherlock’s cheek.

John walks on, towards the bedroom, smiling to himself. Maybe Liesel was right.

He strips down to his vest and his boxers and slides between Sherlock’s ridiculously luxurious sheets.

Maybe.

* * *

 He sleeps like a baby, better than; sunlight wakes him and when he looks at his phone he realizes he’s slept for seven hours in a row for the first time in over a year.

He gets up to the smell of coffee brewing and the sounds of Rosie giggling and something clattering to the floor over and over as Sherlock explains to her the importance of reproducibility in research.

* * *

 The sunset stretches out across the sky as she arranges her hair just so, a cascade of artful, dark curls flowing over her shoulders. She pins a few curls back, away from her carefully constructed face--skin pale but dewy, bright blue eyes subtly rimmed in brown liner, pink lips touched with a bit of shine.  She hums to herself as she buttons up her pretty floral dress, pulls on the tidy emerald cardigan. Silver knotwork dots her ears, her throat, her finger. She is a fairy princess, alluring, innocent, beguiling.

They should be home soon.

She is ready.

* * *

It’s late afternoon when it happens.

Rooftop chase and thrilling apprehension, John holding the murderer at gunpoint.

Sherlock handcuffs the culprit to an exhaust pipe and stands. Looks over to John, who is catching his breath, half-smiling with giddy adrenaline, and Sherlock can’t stop staring.

John stares back.

When Lestrade comes, Sherlock stalks away.

“Hey, I need you two--”

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock growls without looking back. John gives Lestrade a shrug and follows after his madman.

Though they are silent, though they avoid each other’s eyes, the cab ride home is fraught. John feels the crackling attraction between them, the smell of a storm on the wind, and his heart won’t stop pounding.

They make it home, John pays the cabbie and Sherlock’s already up the steps, already disappearing inside.

John walks in, shuts the door. Mrs. Hudson’s vacuum sounds at the back of the house. The hall is unlit, dim, and Sherlock is there, in the shadows, an arm’s length away.

_Now or never, Watson._

John reaches out, grabs wool and cashmere and pulls.

He shouldn’t be surprised at how easy it is.

Their lips crash together, all hesitation has vaporized, and John leans up and into.

Sherlock rains kisses on him, soft but quick, John barely able to kiss in return, and he lets his lips go pliant, welcoming. Sherlock pulls kiss after kiss from him, as though now that he has an invitation he intends to make up for lost time. John revels at Sherlock’s eagerness, the sheer sensation of their mouths coming together again and again, and his imagination did not do it justice. It is brilliant, amazing, fantastic--

It’s a perfectly-aimed bullet hitting its mark from a building away.  

It’s running and giggles in the streets of London.

It’s “it’s all fine” and “I don’t mind”,

“conductor of light” and “I’ve just got one”,

“you make me right” and “of course I forgive you”--

All made physical, all made tangible; and John Watson is never going back.

He will go to end of his days kissing Sherlock Holmes.

His free hand slides along Sherlock’s side, under coat, under suit jacket, to rest at the small of Sherlock’s back, urging him closer, and Sherlock mirrors him, putting his own hand on John’s back, pressing their bodies together. John gives a moan, the contact delicious but insufficient, and he untangles his hand from Sherlock’s scarf, slides his fingers up to bury themselves in Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock sighs against his lips, his body sinks against John’s, and something inside John’s chest swells.

Sherlock wants him. Like this. Unequivocally.

John takes three steps forward, propelling Sherlock backwards until his back meets the wall of the hallway with force. He kicks at Sherlock’s instep without apology, and whether Sherlock cottons on or just obeys unthinkingly doesn’t matter; it matters only that he widen his stance, make himself shorter.

He does, instantly, and John surges forward like a wave, crushing his body against Sherlock’s, mouth on mouth, groin against groin. Sherlock grunts, adjusts his hips, and John thrusts his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth.

As with everything else between them, there is no half-way. There is no slow. They aim to devour each other.

Their kisses become fevered, lips and tongues and teeth. Their sighs and moans grow loud even against the rumble of Mrs. Hudson’s ancient vacuum cleaner. Sherlock’s hands push at John’s coat, shoving it off his shoulders, and they pull apart a moment so John can remove it, toss it away. Sherlock shrugs out of his own coat, lets it slide to the floor as he reaches forward to tug the hem of John’s jumper. John lifts his arms, letting Sherlock peel the wool from him.

Dropping the jumper, Sherlock frowns at him, eyes roving over John’s shirt, the vest underneath. “You and your endless layers.” His tone is a mixture, frustration and fascination swirled together.

John catches the metaphor. He meets Sherlock’s eyes with his own, a hint of a grin on his lips. “Pot. Kettle.”

He reaches forward do undo Sherlock’s scarf and pulls on it slowly, watching as it falls away. His eyes zero in on Sherlock’s newly exposed neck--the smooth, pale skin dotted with freckles, the long “V” of his throat, the pulse just below his jaw--and his mouth goes slack.

He brings his hand up, index finger pressing gently at Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock acquiesces, turning his head to the side, and John lets his finger slide down from Sherlock’s jaw to trace the along the vertical cord of muscle of his neck.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you here for . . .”

John’s voice is low and rough; he shakes his head just a little, because the truth is, he’s wanted to kiss Sherlock’s neck since that first day at Bart’s.

“. . . for _ages_.”  

Sherlock’s quick inhalation is all the invitation John needs, and he moves forward. His kisses are light at first, exploratory, gauging what Sherlock likes by the little movements he makes, the little sounds escaping his throat. John finds the spot just below Sherlock’s ear and Sherlock’s body jerks against him. He smiles against Sherlock’s skin and attacks in earnest. He sucks, licks, nips until Sherlock is quivering against him. He switches his attentions to the other side of Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock can’t get him close enough. He reaches down John’s back, pulls at his shirts until they’re untucked and loose, thrusts his hands down the back of John’s jeans.

John groans as Sherlock’s fingers wiggle down to spread themselves over John’s arse, grasping firmly and pressing him forward, increasing the pressure and friction between their bodies.

“God, yes,” John pants out before Sherlock kisses him, hard and urgent, his breath coming fast and harsh against John’s cheek.

John pulls away a moment to breathe, to look Sherlock in the eye as he slides his hand down between them. His fingers pause at the buckle of Sherlock’s belt, and he raises his brow in a silent question.

Sherlock’s eyes are dark, glassy, his breath rough, and the word comes out of him like a rumble. “ _Yes_.”

His enthusiastic consent spurs John’s hands into motion, and he begins to slide leather through metal, heart skipping wildly.

The vacuum stops.

John’s fingers freeze.

It occurs to him that they are in the middle of the front hall.

“Erm.” John clears his throat. Tilts his head towards the stairs.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and gives an impatient huff, but agrees, grabbing John’s hand and nearly pulling him up the stairs, coats and jumper abandoned on the floor behind them. Sherlock is already kissing him again before they reach the landing. Their hands wind around each other, pulling each other closer as they try to simultaneously continue their kissing and navigate themselves through the open door of the flat. They manage it, a drunken shuffle into the room, kissing all the while, and so it takes them a moment to perceive it.

They both hear it at the same time and go still.

_“I that am lost, oh, who will find me . . .”_

Someone is singing.

_“Deep down below the old beech tree . . .”_

Someone John does not recognize is sitting in John’s chair, singing--and in her arms is Rosie.


	6. Chapter 6

She watches as John straightens his spine, senses on alert. He doesn’t recognize her, and she can see that he’s seconds away from panic-induced action. Sherlock is gathering data so intently she can hear him think.

“Hello, love,” she says in Elspeth’s voice.

John blinks.

“Don’t ya recognize me?” she says, tone bright even as she keeps her volume low for the sleeping baby.

John shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “Sorry, Elspeth, sorry.”

“Changed me hair,” she says. She glances down at John’s untucked shirt.

“I . . . I didn’t know you were coming over today,” he sputters, and the color rises to his cheeks.

She raises one eyebrow. “Apparently.”

She risks a quick glance at Sherlock, who is completely still and not blushing at all, who is looking a bit pale, actually.

Standing carefully, Rosie still in her arms, Eurus moves towards the cot by the window, feeling Sherlock’s eyes like ice along her spine as she goes.  She sets the baby down gently, knows it’s the last time she’ll see her for a while, and is surprised to be so affected.

When she turns back to face them, John has tucked in his shirt and avoids her gaze, but Sherlock is just staring.

She stares back; lets something he’ll recognize light her eyes, twist her lip.

“Remarkable,” he says.

She smiles a little. She’s not above being proud at having tricked him.

John looks between them. “What are you on about?” he asks Sherlock.

“While we’ve been preoccupied with _feelings--_ ” He grimaces as he says the word. “--we’ve let the trickster in. Opened the door wide for her to walk on through.”

“Trickster?” John echoes, scrunching up his brow, darting his eyes over to Eurus. “You mean Elspeth?”

“I mean my sister.”

She takes a moment to drink in John’s reaction, a flavor of stunned silence she particularly enjoys.

“Hello, brother,” she says, in her real voice, letting her gaze slide to Sherlock.

John is shock embodied.

“I don’t imagine we have much time,” she says.

“No, I imagine not,” he agrees.

“Shall we?” She motions to the chairs by the fire, and he gives a nod. John is still frozen near the doorway as Sherlock takes the desk chair and moves it to make a triangle of seats.

“Sit down, John,” Sherlock says, settling into his own chair.

“Hang on--”

“In a few short minutes, Eurus will be gone and we won’t have another chance for quite some time. Sit down.”

“Eurus?” John repeats, walking over to his chair in a daze.

“Eurus,” she says as he sits. “Elspeth. Liesel. Hope. I’ve had so many names.”

Comprehension flows over him like ice water; she can see the moment he thinks about the texts he has shared with Elspeth, the secrets he told Liesel. Ice turns to flame, and he speaks with some heat.

“Had your fun, then?” He purses his lips together and nods. “Good. Great. Yet another Holmes sibling who has no sense of boundaries.”

“Boundaries are for ordinary people,” she says.

“And you’re not ordinary?”

Sherlock answers this. “Obviously.” He reclines a bit in his chair. “Eurus is quite extraordinary, in fact. A particular blend of genius married to a strain of sociopathy that many would find concerning.”

“I _am_ sorry about Redbeard, Sherlock.” He was never going to forgive her for the damn dog. “To be fair, you do form the most predictable attachments. A dog. A former soldier. An adorable baby. At least Jim was interesting.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and says nothing, but John’s ears prick up almost visibly.

“Jim?” He cocks his head. “Jim _Moriarty_?”

“Oh, yes. He approached me ages ago. I think he intended to use me as leverage somehow, if you can believe that.” Beautiful, interesting Jim, so desperate to get Sherlock’s attention. He’d been just the sort to fascinate Sherlock for years, if he hadn’t been so determined to destroy him--an outcome she could not allow. “I found a way to make him feel as though he’d won, even as I ensured he could no longer harm any of you.”

Suspicion curls like smoke above Sherlock. “How?”

She smiles to herself, remembering. Leading Jim to suicide as though it were his own idea was one of her greatest achievements and deserved a proper telling.

“I’d love to say, brother, but the clock ticks on.”

“What do you mean?” John asks.

She rolls her eyes, sighs. “Mycroft and I have an ‘agreement’, and I’ve come too close to the line lately. He’ll be here to collect me soon.”

John huffs out a mirthless laugh, familiar with Mycroft’s methods. “And where will he put you?”

“Oh, somewhere nice. Always a first class ticket somewhere beautiful.” She pauses. “One-way, of course.”

John nods, but he’s already moved on to his next question in his mind. He’s itching to ask her something, to ask her why, when Sherlock deduced it within a minute of seeing her there, sat in their sitting room. She decides to save time.

“I was vetting you, obviously.”

“Vetting?”

How Sherlock tolerates the constant echo is beyond her. “Mycroft has his methods, and I have mine. I am ever-watchful of my brothers, concerned for their well-being as any good sister would be.” She smiles over at Sherlock, and gets a wry grin in return.

“Albeit with a bit more subterfuge,” Sherlock amends.

She turns back to John. “I’ve been watching you from the beginning, you know.”

He takes this in stride, accustomed as he is to the strangeness that is life with Sherlock Holmes. “Why show up now, then? Why not before?”

“Finally asking the right questions.” He frowns at her. “I pop in whenever Sherlock needs me. Those first couple of years you two were doing fine. Getting on like a house on fire, so to speak.” She pauses until she sees the memory spark in John’s eyes, the advice she had given him as Liesel returning in his mind. “But then, even after my brother returned, even after you said you forgave him--he wasn’t sure. He was never sure.”

Sherlock looks steadily in the direction of the kitchen, face blank, fingers still.

“Sure of what?” John asks, voice rough as his muscles around his eyes tighten.

She smiles. “Of _you_. And then--you blamed him for Mary’s death. You banned him from your life, from Rosie.”

John looks away, shame and regret dripping from his fingers as he curls them into his palms.

“So I had to be sure of you. To make sure you were still worthy.”

Fingers curl and uncurl, and John clears his throat. He looks up at her, eyes as brave as the day he faced Mycroft for the first time. “And?”

“And here you are.” If she can successfully remove as great an adversary as Jim Moriarty, dispatching John Watson from this earth would hardly be a challenge--a fact Sherlock is well aware of, and he turns now, finally, to look at her.

“Eurus.” A warning, sharp as Spanish steel.

“Don’t worry, brother. I’ve become rather fond of him myself.” She scrunches up her features. “And the child. She’s rather extraordinary.” The protective fascination she feels for Rosie still surprises her.

“Yes,” they both say at the same moment, and Eurus smiles. The three of them sit in silence for a moment, but Eurus hears the tick tick of the clock nonetheless.

“Time to say our goodbyes, I suspect,” Sherlock says, a note of regret in his tone, and she gathers it up, wraps it in fine linen to keep for later, when she needs reminding.

“Yes, I suppose so.” She rises from her chair, and smooth as water she steps towards John. He looks up, wary, but he can’t hide his curiosity. She gives him a sly grin.

“Shame we didn’t have more time,” she says, and with that she sinks, flows, down into his lap. His arms settle around her automatically though his face is carefully neutral.

She reaches out, slides a thumb over his lips.

“I had ideas,” she whispers, lowering her forehead to his, and he struggles to remain perfectly still. His muscles are rigid, his breath quickens, and she smiles.  With her free hand she reaches out without looking. She hears Sherlock stand, walk over, and his hand slides into hers.

“I can see the appeal, now,” she says to Sherlock. John swallows as she lifts her face away, his lips twitch against her thumb, but his eyes never waver from hers. “There’s an orange fire to him.” Her hand slips down from his lips to rest on his chest. “Cinnamon and black pepper beneath the vanilla.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and his right hand comes up to John’s face. John turns into Sherlock’s palm, following its heat, and when he looks up into Sherlock’s eyes, it’s like a fuse being lit, the scent sharp and smoky in her nostrils. She takes the credit for it, stoppers it up and places it on the shelf.

“Well. What a charming tableau.”

Only John expresses surprise at hearing Mycroft’s voice. Sherlock grips Eurus’ hand more tightly and she holds on for balance as she rises from the warmth of John’s lap. She smoothes her dress and turns to face her older brother.

“Mycroft.”

“Sister dear.”

John stands as well. “Are you really just going to . . . send her away somewhere?”

“I think we’d all agree that Holmes siblings function best whilst maintaining a reasonable distance from each other,” Mycroft answers, smooth as silk.

Eurus smiles at John. “He’s not wrong.” With a tilt of his head, John lifts an eyebrow and presses his lips together in silent agreement.

She turns to Sherlock, who is looking at her, letting her see, just for a moment, the exquisite mixture of emotions flashing in his eyes. “I enjoyed being Hope for you,” she says, and then it happens. He puts his arms around her, pulling her to him, and she melds against him, just for a moment experiencing her own emotion directly. He hasn’t hugged her like this since he was a child, since before Redbeard. He dips his head to press his lips to her ear.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

She kisses his cheek, memorizes the texture of his skin, the warmth of his embrace, the balm of his understanding--and then he is letting go, and both their masks slide back into place.

She faces John. “You should keep going to therapy.”

John scrunches his brow as one corner of his mouth curls up. “Yeah.” He glances over at Mycroft, then back to her. “Yeah. Well. How else will I ensure you all have access to my innermost thoughts?”

She wrinkles her nose at him. “You’re such a little shit,” she says, not without affection. He really has grown on her over the time she has spent with him.

“That’s ‘worthy’ little shit, thanks,” he says, and Sherlock lets out a little laugh beside him.

Mycroft shifts his weight and Eurus knows it’s time to go. She looks over to where Rosie sleeps soundly, knows somehow that she’ll be back sooner this time, not only for when Sherlock needs her, but whenever her niece needs her as well.

“Sleep tight, petal.”

She walks over to Mycroft, who offers her his arm, and she winds her hand around his elbow. They descend the seventeen steps arm in arm, leaving the child’s fathers above.

In the warm cocoon of the sleek towncar, she feels her brother’s arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, and she is surrounded by sensation--

peppermint and cinnamon,

gunsmoke and dragon fire,

lavender and rose.


End file.
